


be thou immortal, though thou are not mine

by Stacicity



Series: Jonah Fics [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Pegging, Trans Jonah Magnus, complete and utter self-indulgence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:27:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24203623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stacicity/pseuds/Stacicity
Summary: Mordechai is implacable and immovable, proud and steadfast, but a lost wager puts him at Jonah's mercy. Barnabas gets drawn into the fray.
Relationships: Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus, Mordechai Lukas/Jonah Magnus
Series: Jonah Fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759540
Comments: 16
Kudos: 87
Collections: Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus





	be thou immortal, though thou are not mine

**Author's Note:**

> Simon Fairchild is referred to as Emiliano here as per the rest of my Jonah fics.

“If I’d known you were going to be so _insufferably_ smug about this, I’d-”

“Oh, let’s not have any pretences, Mordechai, aren’t you and I beyond that? You knew full well,” Jonah grins. He’s kneeling on the bed, still dressed, running one finger gently along the vertebrae of Mordechai’s spine in the knowledge that - for once - he can drink in the sight, watch his fill and be satisfied. Mordechai can’t do much about it while he’s tied naked to the headboard, after all. “And you agreed regardless. Perhaps you thought I’d be kind to you. Perhaps you wanted me to be _nice_.” 

There’s a little intake of breath, a shift in the muscles of Mordechai’s back, but no response. Jonah chuckles low in his chest, taking his hips in his hands and giving a squeeze. “All of this fuss for a gentle bedding, Mr Lukas, soft and tender like a virgin bride? If I untie you will you whisper sweet nothings to me? If I turn you on your back, will you gaze up into my eyes? If I-”

“If you talk all night we’ll never get anywhere.” 

Jonah sighs, keeping his hands against Mordechai’s hips while he looks over his shoulder to the corner of the room, meeting Barnabas’ eyes where he’s nursing his brandy, expression all fond exasperation. 

“Come now,” Jonah huffs, expression settling into a little moue of discontent, digging his nails against Mordechai’s skin just to see his shoulders go tense. “Can’t a man enjoy himself a little?” 

“Mordechai is probably wondering the same thing.” Barnabas sets his brandy down and stands, crossing to the bed to settle his hand against Jonah’s cheek. “Now, I know you’re excited. But if you can’t keep your mouth shut and behave I’m sure Mordechai won’t have any objections to me gagging you while you take him.” 

“None _whatsoever_ ,” Mordechai mutters, hissing through his teeth when Jonah digs his nails in harder. “I agreed to letting you fuck me, not to letting you talk me to death.” 

“You’ve rather taken up with the wrong crowd for that,” Barnabas says with a rueful little sigh, kissing Jonah’s forehead. “Come along, angel. The oil?” 

“Yes, yes. Since you two are in such a blessed _hurry_ ,” Jonah grumbles, leaning over to the bedside table to retrieve the little bottle. Barnabas sits down on the bed, reaching out to touch Mordechai’s shoulder just briefly. He doesn’t get a response - not in so many words - but Mordechai’s head turns towards him and he can see the ghost of a smile on his lips, can see the flush on his normally pale cheeks. Barnabas smiles right back, reaching out to take the bottle of oil when Jonah fetches it, holding the glass between his palms to warm it while Jonah undresses. 

There is a camaraderie between them, perhaps, though Mordechai would never admit to it. He mocks Barnabas for being so very under Jonah’s spell and yet he - who eschews all company he can - is here, tied and helpless and willingly humbled before him under his eyes, under _Barnabas’_ eyes. Privately, Barnabas suspects that they’re not so different, really. No different from any other poor creatures, any other of the gentlemen of London that find themselves drawn towards Jonah like moths.

Jonah strips without ceremony, for once - peacock that he is - but Barnabas is mesmerised regardless, watching the laces of his shirt come undone, carefully-tailored clothes giving way to soft, perfect skin, the fade of a bruise against his hip where Barnabas remembers biting him a few nights ago. He aches to touch him. He restrains himself, watching Jonah settle himself over Mordechai like something predatory, possessive, splaying his hands against his ribs as if to mark him, to brand him.

A while ago, now, Emiliano had corralled Jonah into a room to paint him. He’d come out with fading, flaking paint against his skin - a handmark against his shoulder in clear cerulean, streaks of white and grey shadowing his ribs, startling emerald against his pale thighs and the hollow of his ankle. Barnabas wonders what Mordechai would look like if he inked Jonah’s palms now, watching him stroke and squeeze and drag his nails against each part of him. Mordechai’s broadly-muscled thighs are not shaking, not yet, but Barnabas knows that Jonah won’t be satisfied until he’s taken him entirely apart. 

It’s why he’s here - partly, anyway. He wants to be sure that they all survive the night. He wants to see Mordechai wrecked and trembling. He wants to press close to them both and drive Jonah just as wild, he wants, he _wants_. He spends so much time wanting, where Jonah is concerned. But really, he is here because Jonah desires it, and wager or no wager they are all beholden to his whims eventually.

He hands Jonah the bottle of oil again, watches Mordechai’s head turn, just fractionally, at the sound of the cork coming loose. So _controlled_. Barnabas is used to their strange little circle of friends, their fraternity, and Mordechai’s presence is quiet and steady, sometimes threatening, sometimes scathing, a dam to their flow of ebullient words. He is quiet now, too. The first press of one of Jonah’s slender fingers gets only a catch in his breathing that sends a shiver down Barnabas’ spine as he watches, repositioning himself with his back against the headboard so he can watch Jonah, so he can reach out - daring - and brush his fingertips against the rough scratch of Mordechai’s beard. He half-expects to be bitten for his troubles but then that’s after Jonah’s fashion more than Mordechai’s - instead he just lifts his head to meet Barnabas’ gaze with those pale eyes, intent and implacable. 

“I think he can take another one,” Barnabas says softly, watches Mordechai’s lips twist - a smile? A scowl? Too fast for him to tell - before he lowers his head again, looks up to see Jonah watching the both of them, uncharacteristically silent. He looks - well, Barnabas isn’t quite sure. Jealous, perhaps. Hungry. Five men at his beck and call, under his thumb, at his heel, and still Jonah is hungry. Barnabas watches the flex of his wrist as he presses another finger in, does something that makes Mordechai’s breath stutter in his throat again.

“You seem to be enjoying the view,” Jonah remarks, and Barnabas laughs. 

“How could I not? You two look lovely together.” Mordechai’s bulk against all of Jonah’s fragility, those two are ice and fire and it feels like it ought to be dangerous, sometimes, getting between them. Barnabas has seen Jonah, sometimes, after a night with Mordechai - has watched the stiffness of his walk, the heaviness of his limbs, sometimes (thrillingly) the glimpse of skin rubbed raw beneath his sleeves, the shadow of a bruise against his shoulder. On nights like that Barnabas gathers Jonah close, pets along his sides and kisses behind his knee, the small of his back, just under his ear, secret places unmarked by the bruises of Mordechai’s heavy hands. Funny how worship can look so different in another pair of hands, a supplicant up against a crusader. 

Emiliano teases (because he teases everyone) and calls him a cuckold and Barnabas supposes it might be true enough. He loves to have Jonah close, but more than that he wants to see him _happy_. Whether it be tipsy and giggling with his head against Fanshawe’s shoulder while the doctor tries to induce him to drink some water, or wrecked and gasping under Mordechai’s hand, or soft and sleepy between the sheets before the sun has quite risen - Barnabas has seen him in all of those ways, and will again. Whether it be by his hand or another’s, he takes his satisfaction in the warmth of Jonah’s smile and that is enough, it has always been enough. 

He slides his hand from Mordechai’s cheek to his jaw, pressed against his neck to feel his pulse, quick and thumping against his fingertips. “How does he feel, Jonah?” 

“I’m sure you can imagine that well enough,” Jonah laughs, and Barnabas tilts his head, meets his eyes. 

“Tell me anyway.” 

There’s a pause, there - maybe he’s surprised Jonah - before he shrugs and smooths his hand along Mordechai’s flank like he’s soothing him, gentling him. “Mm. Tight. Hot. He’s not taken this in a while, I should imagine.”

“Oh, I don’t think there are many men brave enough to have Mordechai under them,” Barnabas murmurs, listening to the rattle of Mordechai’s breath, something soft and swiftly bitten-off that could _almost_ have been a moan. He’s doing exceptionally well; Barnabas has been under Jonah’s fingers, knows that he is as delicate and precise in this as he is with his violin, and Mordechai’s silence _has_ to be intentional. Obstinacy, perhaps just pride. Barnabas isn’t sure. At any rate, Jonah is all but glowing with the knowledge that so few people see him like this; Barnabas can see his satisfaction in the smile on his face, the way his arm flexes as he presses his fingers into him, still just the two for now. 

“I’m _sure_ ,” Jonah all but purrs it. Barnabas smoothes a hand up Mordechai’s arm to one of his hands, unwinding his fingers from a clenched fist to lace them together. His grip is like iron, uncompromising and rigid, but it softens - just slightly - when Barnabas leans in and presses his lips to his knuckles. 

“He can take another,” he adds, a little aside, and Jonah nods and reaches back for the oil, leans in over Mordechai’s back to kiss his spine - Barnabas catches a flash of teeth and tuts, shaking his head. “No, none of that. Gentle.” 

“ _Gentle_ ,” Jonah scoffs. “As if he hasn’t earned himself some recompense for the sort of treatment he gives me.” 

“You love it,” Barnabas replies simply, and Mordechai’s fingers tighten on his again, a reflexive little twitch. There’s an arch to his spine now and - yes - now Barnabas can see his legs shaking, toes curling against the sheets. Jonah snorts, drives his hand forward for a few firm thrusts - one, two - before Barnabas sighs and shifts back onto his knees, reaches out to catch his hand and hold it still. Mordechai _does_ groan at that, quiet and helpless, and Barnabas can’t tell if it’s relief or disappointment, but - well, it doesn’t much matter. “I said _gentle_ , Jonah, do as you’re told. We’ll take him apart together, you and I.” 

Jonah opens his mouth and then closes it again, a startled look in his eyes that melts into something keen and ravenous. He leans in for a kiss and Barnabas grants it, curling his free hand at the nape of Jonah’s neck and keeping his fingers curled around his wrist, guiding it in, and then out, and then in again, good and slow until they reach a fluid, rocking sort of rhythm that has Mordechai’s knees sliding against the sheets, the headboard creaking a little where he pulls at the ropes as he goes from stiff almost-discomfort to melting, pushing back, face pressed into the inside of his arm. Jonah pulls from the kiss to watch and Barnabas noses into his hair, breathes him in, watches the way Mordechai stretches around Jonah’s fingers. 

“Care to join me?” Jonah asks softly and Barnabas gives that due consideration, imagines sliding a finger in along Jonah’s, the two of them pressed hand-to-hand in the clutching grip of Mordechai’s body - _God_. Another time, perhaps. 

“Not tonight. Keep on just like that,” Barnabas instructs, letting go of him so he can get off the bed and find the harness, butter-soft leather cut and tailored for Jonah’s proportions (because heaven forfend Jonah allow anything into his life that isn’t fitted and cut to his requirements). He leaves it on the bed for now so he can wrap a firm arm around Jonah’s waist and reach down to trap his cock between two of his fingers, rubbing in long strokes that have Jonah gasping, arching against him, fingers shaking inside Mordechai judging by the way he groans.

“Steady now,” Barnabas murmurs, mouth against Jonah’s shoulder, feeling the muscles jump against his lips. “And - yes, he’ll take another.” Four is a stretch but it’s for the best given the size of what Jonah intends to fuck him with, never one for dipping in at the shallows, never one for anything _easy_. 

Mordechai ducks his head, twisting a little to look under his bound arms to watch them, and Barnabas feels Jonah’s head tilt, can imagine the wicked grin on his face, all smugness. He’ll allow it; Jonah spends so much time debased and writhing and pleading between the lot of them that perhaps he’s earned a little smugness at Mordechai’s expense. He thumbs firmly at Jonah’s cock to make his head fall back, kisses his neck, his jaw, drags his fingers against his cunt to make Jonah grind against his hand, and tries not to feel _too_ proud of himself when he pulls away and Jonah’s thighs clench like he could keep him there by force. 

The facsimile that fits into the harness is smooth, heavy glass, gently curved and cool against Barnabas’ palms as he fits it in place, wrapping the straps around Jonah’s hips and securing them. It’s around the size of Mordechai’s and Barnabas is _sure_ that that’s by design, wonders if he compared the two how much difference he’d find. If Jonah could make himself a mould of Mordechai’s cock and have one for his very own, Barnabas has no doubt he’d do just that.

“I ought,” Jonah says softly, “to have got one that I could put studs in. Would you count for me, Mordechai?” 

“Oh, hush,” Barnabas laughs, holding onto Jonah’s hips and nipping his earlobe by way of a rebuke. “Don’t be wicked. Do you think he’s ready?” 

Jonah nods, withdrawing his fingers slowly, hooking the tips against Mordechai’s hole where it’s stretched and tugging until he groans, dipped with his head against the pillows, arms over his head. It can’t be comfortable, but the view is spectacular; Mordechai is all pallid muscle, like a statue, like an obscene sort of Galatea that Jonah is carving to his liking. Barnabas reaches for the oil again, runs his hand over it in long, firm strokes, presses it back against Jonah’s hips and then settles the tip carefully against Mordechai. 

“Go on,” Barnabas urges softly, and Jonah shivers right down his spine. He leans in, one hand against Mordechai’s hip to keep him steady, his other splayed across his back as he presses in - and _in_ \- slow but relentless, each inch of the glass disappearing into him until Jonah’s hips are pressed flush to Mordechai’s and he can lean over his back to kiss his shoulder. 

“Tell me how it feels,” Jonah urges. Mordechai is silent - predictably - his breath coming in shorter pants now, and Jonah tangles his hands into his hair and pulls hard, giving his hips another little push to make Mordechai shout. “ _Tell me_ , Mordechai. Tell me how it feels to have me inside you.” 

More silence. Barnabas stands, adjusting himself within his trousers and taking a few steps so he can see Mordechai’s face, eyes squeezed shut, lip bitten so hard it’s white against his teeth. Barnabas touches his jaw, just lightly, curls his fingers into his beard until those icy eyes open again, gives him another smile. 

“Still with us, Mr Lukas?” 

Mordechai is too proud to turn his face into his hand but he gives a nod, a quick jerk of his head, and Barnabas opens his mouth to speak - but, Jonah being Jonah, he takes that moment to withdraw a little and push right back in again, and Mordechai’s eyes shutter closed instantly, lips parting in what’s not quite a moan, just air being driven right out of his lungs. Jonah is relentless, a shark scenting blood, bracing himself firmly and driving into Mordechai in fast, sharp thrusts. 

It ought to be surprising, really, that he’s picked up the motion so fast, but then Barnabas supposes he’s had enough practice on the receiving end of it to be aware, and he’s surprisingly adept - hips rolling like waves, his nails digging into Mordechai’s shoulder, his teeth against his neck. Barnabas watches, captivated by the way he can see Jonah’s lips twisted in something like a snarl - all vicious, primal satisfaction, the first long groan he draws from Mordechai deep and hard-won. 

Jonah is transcendent like this. His skin is gleaming in the candlelight, hair gone fiery - he looks like some sort of avenging angel, like a temptation, like a siren, and Barnabas aches to touch him down to his very core, aches like something empty to be filled up to overflowing. He swallows hard and settles himself behind Jonah’s hips once again, catches them and holds them still for just a moment, laughs outright at the sudden indignant sound that that gets from Jonah, echoed softly from where Mordechai has pressed his face back into the pillows. 

“Shh. Like this-” he says, presses Jonah’s hips against Mordechai’s at a slightly different angle, long and smooth and deep. “You remember, I suppose, when Robert fucked you like this? Good and slow until you could scarcely speak, Jonah, and I had to hold you up for him.” 

Jonah’s breath catches at the recollection and he settles against Barnabas’ hold, driving into Mordechai until Barnabas can hear muffled moans against the pillow where it sounds like Mordechai has clenched his teeth against it, shaking against the ropes. “There, now. Give him a hand, sweetpea,” he adds with a smile, and Jonah shakes his head. 

“Not yet.” He sounds almost dreamy, eyes intent upon the back of Mordechai’s head, the flush on the back of his neck. Barnabas can’t blame him; it’s like watching someone tame a dragon, wholly unlikely and utterly entrancing.

“Jonah-” 

“Oh, you _are_ listening. Hallo, Mordechai.” All sharpness again, and Jonah gives a few more quick thrusts to take advantage of Mordechai’s lifted head, dragging out a cry that sounds like it’s been wrenched from deep within him, like Jonah has stuck his hand down his throat and ripped it loose. “I’ll make you come, don’t you worry, but I’ll need you to ask nicely.”

“ _Jonah_.” That one’s a hiss and oh, Barnabas fully intends to be here next time Jonah and Mordechai have their way with one another because it sounds as if Mordechai has all manner of designs that he wants to enact, grand plans of revenge, ways to make Jonah cry and writhe and beg for him. Barnabas shudders, presses his forehead against Jonah’s shoulder and then pinches his hip hard to pull an indignant yelp from him. 

“I’ll tell you this much, chuck, you shan’t be finishing until he has,” he says softly, aiming for wry amusement and falling somewhere around reverence. “And of the two of you, you’re the less patient.” 

“True enough,” Jonah concedes, “but I think our Mr Lukas has a plea or two in him, all the same. Don’t you?” He sets himself back to his previous rhythm, merciless thrusts that have Barnabas shivering in what’s almost sympathy, almost jealousy, watching Jonah fuck Mordechai into some semblance of - well, if not submission, _surrender_. He’s a tyrant, Jonah, and Barnabas is willing - so willing - to be ground under his heel. 

“Beg me, Mordechai,” Jonah insists, reaching around to rake his nails against Mordechai’s thigh, his own voice breathless now with the exertion, “beg me, and I’ll make you come on my cock.” 

“I-”

“Say please, Mordechai-”

“ _Jonah_ -”

“ _Say it_ -”

“Please!” it explodes from Mordechai in a cry, half-sobbed, and his hands are fists against the ropes again, “ _damn_ you, Jonah, _please_.” 

“There’s a good boy,” Jonah coos, all sweetness again, and he is at least true to his word; Barnabas watches him stroke Mordechai firm and fast, the bow in Mordechai’s spine as he cries out again, shudders and breaks apart, shoulders heaving as he tries to catch his breath and Jonah pauses. 

Only for a moment, though. Jonah pulls himself almost out and then presses in again, rolling thrusts until Mordechai groans at the sensitivity of it, keeping at it until Barnabas sets a hand against his hips to still him. 

“Let the man breathe, angel,” he tuts. “If you exhaust him then he’ll be no good to you after.” 

“And what, pray, do you think _you’re_ here for?” Jonah replies primly, and Barnabas laughs. 

“I’m at your service as always, Jonah, you _know_ that. But let him breathe anyway.” He pulls Jonah back from Mordechai, reaching to untie one of his wrists and brush his thumb against the skin where it’s raw and sensitive. “Are you alright?” 

“Don’t _fuss_ , Bennett,” Mordechai clips out, eyes still closed, and Barnabas snorts. 

“God forbid,” But he wants to, really. It’s an unfamiliar feeling and Barnabas has better things to pay attention to than that, so he leaves the other wrist tied and nudges Mordechai until he rolls heavily onto his back, head tipped towards the ceiling. “Hold there a moment, if you would- Jonah, come here-”

Jonah raises his eyebrows, approaching to let Barnabas undo the harness and set it aside, to coax him straddling Mordechai’s face, Barnabas placing his knees either side of Mordechai’s thighs and unbuttoning his trousers so he can free his cock, red and straining against the air having gone untouched so long. “There,” he says breathlessly, “will this suit?” 

“Oh, _quite_ well,” Mordechai mutters, grips Jonah firmly by the hip with his free hand and tugs him down to bury his face between his legs, Barnabas drawing Jonah in for a kiss and directing his hand carefully to his cock, keeping his mouth stopped before he can say anything to goad Mordechai into anger again. Each cry from Jonah’s lips is honey-sweet and muffled, his hand shaking against Barnabas’ cock, all three of them poised and balanced against each other. 

Barnabas knows - because he is long-since familiar with the effects of these rendezvous of theirs - that Jonah’s thighs will be red from Mordechai’s beard, that his hip will be bruised by his fingertips. Tomorrow Mordechai will retreat for a while and reestablish his pride, and then he’ll put Jonah thoroughly in his place, and Barnabas will wrap his arms around Jonah and kiss him and soothe him and they - the three of them - _all_ of them, when it comes to that - will maintain this strange equilibrium of theirs. 

Familiarity is such a funny thing. He knows from the pitch of Jonah’s moans into his mouth that he is close, knows from the keen and the shake of it that Mordechai isn’t holding back, and he could swear that when Jonah comes he can _taste_ it, something sweet and sharp in his kiss. It’s the easiest thing in the world to follow him. He’s pressed close to Jonah and, Christ, this shirt, this waistcoat, it’ll all be ruined, but that hardly matters. Jonah feels boneless against him and Barnabas sets his hands against him to hold him up enough that he can manoeuvre him from over Mordechai, half-cradled against his chest and then settled tenderly onto the bed. 

Jonah reaches up to untie Mordechai’s wrist while Barnabas retreats to try and collect himself, watching Jonah curl himself under Mordechai’s arm and take advantage of his lassitude to press himself to his side, not entirely sure if he’s doing it out of affection or a desire to aggravate Mordechai further. Maybe both. It could well be both. 

“Satisfied with the spoils of your wager?” Mordechai rumbles, and Jonah laughs quietly, cheek pressed to his shoulder. 

“For the time being. Be grateful that Barnabas was so inclined to handle you with kid gloves.” 

“I’ll show you _just_ how grateful I am,” Mordechai mutters, presses a firm kiss to Jonah’s lips and then looks across the room to Barnabas with his eyebrows raised. “Well? Are you joining us?” 

Barnabas hesitates, despite himself - caught by the end of the bed and for the first time feeling like an intruder - and Jonah rolls his eyes so hard that Barnabas fancies he can hear them against his skull. 

“ _Barnabas_. Come here.” His tone is flat and uncompromising and Barnabas smiles despite himself, relieved and touched all at once, as ever obedient to Jonah’s whims. Mordechai’s face is difficult to read but Barnabas thinks he is not necessarily displeased to see him undress and slip back onto the bed, pressed to Jonah’s back. Mordechai moves his arm to allow it and his fingers linger, just for a second, against Barnabas’ shoulder, the briefest of touches that nonetheless makes Barnabas sigh and nose into Jonah’s neck.

Come the morning, Mordechai will likely be gone, but Jonah will still be here. They’ll come together, come apart, come together again, threads in whatever loom Jonah makes of the world, caught close for as long as he desires it. At least threads in a loom are pressed to the maker’s hand, and Barnabas feels made and unmade both by Jonah - listens to Mordechai’s breath and wonders if he feels the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Eye Horror angels you know who you are and I owe you my life 
> 
> The title is from Handel's _Acis and Galatea_


End file.
